


suicide blondes

by arcadiarabbit



Category: Dangan Ronpa
Genre: Despair Fetish, F/F, Femslash February, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Sibling Incest, mentions of death violence torture maiming, necrophilia-play, should i put a trigger warning in order for junko enoshima, sibling cruelty and petty name-calling, slight sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcadiarabbit/pseuds/arcadiarabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The incest taboo is no match for Junko Enoshima, as nothing ever is. And what could possibly be more despair-inducing than rendering yourself an outcast from society?</p>
            </blockquote>





	suicide blondes

Their classmates wake up, one by one, hands chained to desks and heads woozy. Mukuro slips her gas mask over her head, and looks to Junko. It was her idea, of course, to slowly infiltrate their classmates' dormitories with a fast-acting, odourless gas that worked as a knockout. Getting a couple of big burly guys who worshipped her and breathed her despair like air to lug their sleeping bodies to the classroom wasn't a problem at all. Mukuro could easily have carried a few of her classmates, but somehow it seemed sacrilegious. Better to sit back and let the lackeys do the heavy stuff, Junko told her - for once neglecting to mention that Mukuro had been her lackey ever since the twins were little girls. Still, Mukuro was given the job of strapping their wrists to the desktops (no-one knew more about forceful bonds than she did), which, as her sister hammered into her, was an _important duty_ she'd best be  _very grateful_ for. "Say 'thank you, Junko-oneesama,'" she chirped, and when Mukuro decided to point out that Junko was, in fact, the younger, she glared until Mukuro gave in and she got her way. Mukuro had, after all, been playing along with Junko's games all her life; once more wouldn't hurt.

"What the fuck?" a bleary-eyed Kuwata demanded, lifting his head up from its position on the desktop and trying to stand up, only to wince in pain as the straps tightened around his wrists, with a few painful cuts that Mukuro knew would restrict enough circulation to stop him attempting it again. His head swivelled round to face Junko, and she ran her red-tipped fingernails through the pitiful stubble on his chin, blowing him a kiss.

"What is it, sweetie-pie?" Junko asks faux-sweetly, poisonous bubblegum mouth. She could never be anything but a carnivore girl; she's all sharp teeth, sugar and air. There's no wonder people cling to her like flies to honey, Mukuro thinks. Her sister files her manicured nails, looking bored. If anyone is surprised that Junko treats something she's been masterminding for the best part of two years as a chore to her now the day has come, they don't know her and her shifts of favour. Certainly not like Mukuro does. She herself is constantly in and out of favour with Junko - it seems that the world moves far too slow for her, and the only natural solution for a girl like Junko, who can't stay in one place or even with one face for too long before succumbing to insufferable boredom - would be to pull the switch and speed it up a little.

"Enoshima?" It seems that he, Kuwata, is the first to awaken, and his eyes narrow to slits as he begins to panic. This wasn't just another creepy, over-the-top joke orchestrated by the twins, as he'd soon come to realise. "What the fuck are you doing, you crazy bitch?" 

"Oh, Ku-wa-ta-kun," she crooned, perching on the lid of his desk. Junko's fingers find his goatee and wrap themselves around it, she pulls his face gently towards hers before yanking, hard. He screeches in pain, and by way of reflex, tries to protect his piercing with his hands, only to yelp as the straps tighten with every pull, tight enough now to cease circulation altogether. If he's lucky, though, he won't be in this position very long, Mukuro thinks, although all of that depends on Junko. Her pretty face is twisted into a furious scowl, and she yanks again. "Who gave you permission to speak to me, fuckin' scrub?!" He shuts up quickly. His eyes are wide in horror, and there's an obviously fake, adoring smile returned to Junko's face, and as Mukuro watches, silently, from her position beside the blackboard to see her sister's serene expression. Junko is as beautiful, blonde and gleeful as ever, and her presence is almost overwhelming. 

The rest of them are slowly starting to awaken from their hazy half-slumber, and one by one they demand to know what's happening to them, why she's doing this. Fujisaki slumps in his seat and begins to cry, sobs wracking his small shoulders - the effeminate boy is obviously trying to cry silently, but to no avail. It's so pathetic that even Mukuro feels a pang of something deep in her chest, and has to turn away. Oowada is loudly bolstering, shouting, attempting to throw his weight around even when fastened to his desk, as Junko giggles in his face. She laughs even harder when he attempts to promise their classmates that he won't let any harm come to them. Their reactions vary hugely - some are pale-faced, shaking, muttering under their breaths, some are starting to cry, some glaring and attempting to cover up their fear with insults, some are attempting to bargain for their friends' lives. In fact, now she comes to think of it, only Kyouko Kirigiri is silent, staring straight ahead at Junko as though she's known this all along, or perhaps has only begun to piece together the final parts of yet another mystery.

Mukuro is broken out of her silent contemplation when Oogami turns to face her, and makes a solemn, expressionless plea for Mukuro's help, for her to release the other students at least - Oogami offers to duel her, unarmed, if that's what she wants. A few of them are staring silently her way, obviously hoping for their expressionless classmate, the one they slowly pulled into their fold over the course of two terms, to help them. The pangs return stronger than ever and Mukuro has to turn her face away, hoping they managed to read the flash of apology in her eyes.

* * *

 

They'd chosen their respective careers by the time they were twelve. Mukuro was stony-faced and silent even then, she refused to speak unless Junko addressed her. Their parents talked about military camp to try to placate her, but Junko's modelling career soon took precedence. When they were fourteen, Mukuro ran away to join the mercenary organisation she had long since dreamed of, Fenrir - if anyone laughed at the idea of a fourteen-year-old girl as a soldier, even a strange, stoic one who had an almost disturbingly in-depth knowledge of nuclear warfare and the physics involved, amputations, tourniquets, the swiftest, cleanest deaths and the messiest, the traditions of seppuku and mercy killings - they soon ceased laughter when she whipped out a pistol as silent as anything and sent a bullet flying inches away from a soldier's ear. Just a flick of her finger in the opposite direction and his brains would be all over the pavement.

Training with a fourteen-year-old girl, too, wasn't the job you'd expect it to be. If anyone protested that it wasn't right, they couldn't attack a  _kid,_ and a  _girl_ at that, their minds were soon changed when Mukuro tripped them to the ground and held their wrist in the perfect position for a swift, clean break - when she shot at them so quickly they barely had time to dodge, and certainly wouldn't have if she wasn't only trying to prove herself. Soon, training with Mukuro became a given. She wasn't quite like any other soldier - exceptionally talented, despite a young age and a lithe frame - but she still had things to learn until initiation was complete.

Her first mission came sooner than she would have expected; a snowy wilderness and a small army base as target. "A vigilante mission, if you will," her superior was fond of calling it. The other soldiers in her mercenary group wore furs and steeled their shaking hands with alcohol, but Mukuro had no need for anything over than a bulletproof jacket, her usual skirt, and heavy winter boots. It was almost as if she didn't feel the cold - "like a cold-blooded mammal," Junko had teased her (at least, she imagined it was teasing; it was hard even for her to tell when it came to Junko-chan). Instead of rousing, drunken nights, she huddled in her tent, staring at her clasped hands and the wolf tattoo Fenrir had given her, that didn't seem real against her skin. Still, for once she was somewhere she belonged. Fenrir wasn't an organisation that saw itself as friends, or a family, or even allies, as far as Mukuro was concerned, but she couldn't deny that such a life fit her perfectly.

She'd received her first assignment from Fenrir - she was under orders to wound and maim the target, but leave him alive at all costs.  _Today's not his day to die, yeah?_ she was told, and Mukuro said nothing, didn't even meet his eyes, but nodded once, uninterested. She wasn't good at much, Junko always told her and she  _knew,_ even without having to be told, but she could kill, she could torture, she could run and hide and camouflage and disarm and and, if necessary, fight in unarmed combat, and she could take orders. Some mistook her cold, unblinking eyes and impermeable expression for purposeful dumb insolence, but nothing could mistake the fact that she was a good subordinate. She shot him in the back of both kneecaps, then dropped down to her knees and stitched up the wound. She broke his fingers, one by one, and dragged him back to the base by the collar of his uniform. First target down. There would be many more to follow before the call reached her. She never knew quite where Junko would be, her little sister always remained untraceable, but Junko had a secret knack for reaching her wherever she was, even - it seemed - in the middle of nuclear warfare. "Sissy,  _darling,"_ Junko cooed down the phone, "we've got mail. And I have the most  _wonderful_ idea."

If Mukuro thought it was strange that a prestigious academy would want to open its doors to her just because she happened to be good at killing people, she didn't say so. She returned home on the next flight, into Junko's overly-theatrical welcoming arms, and the plastered-on smiles of their mother and father. She spent three years on the run as a missing person, and if they'd ever acknowledged the fact it was hard to tell. But she still couldn't escape from Junko. She was glad of that.

"Private school!" Junko sing-songed, throwing Mukuro's envelope at her. "Gross." Their parents are proud, they say, although Mukuro notices that the shine in their eyes dulls when they turn from Junko to her. She isn't surprised, nor is she upset or blameful - it's just the way it is, after all. She belongs to a rebellious subculture, Mukuro guesses you could say, but Junko is still adored nationwide, the darling of not just the gyaru subculture but of fashion in general, her soft skin, big eyes and blonde curls pliant to the constant change of fashion, the aforementioned changes wonderfully suited to Junko herself. Fashion is, perhaps, the only thing her sister never tires of. It's because fashion is constantly changing, Junko explains to her one day, and Mukuro doesn't really understand but she clings to her sister's words anyway. 

(One year later, they'll return home to visit their parents in the April holidays, only to find darling Mummy and Daddy on the sofa, soaked in vomit and surrounded by empty bottles of prescription medication. Junko calls the funeral home, the ambulance and the press. The autopsy declare it a double suicide, and Junko's crocodile tears could convince anyone of anything - she's surprised no-one has sold their house to provide the younger twin with furs and diamonds yet. She puts her arm round a stoic, expressionless Mukuro, who doesn't really feel anything - certainly no sense of loss for their parents - and has never really been able to pretend that she has. She tells everyone, "She's in shock - poor Mukuro-neechan always blocked anything out when it upset her." Only Mukuro sees the gleam in Junko's eyes, and only Mukuro returns it with a small, secret smile - of course anyone with a connection to Junko Enoshima didn't die by accident, they should have known, but of course they couldn't - and that night in Junko's school dormitory as she retells the sordid sight of their parents' deaths, pills and all, with Junko riding her pelvis and moaning like a cat, she leans down to hiss in Mukuro's ear, "I did it for you, big sis." Mukuro can do nothing but groan in response, scissoring her fingers farther inside her sister as Junko mouths at her neck, laughing-)

Junko excuses herself  _and_ Mukuro from the kitchen table with a quick, "Gotta go, big sis and I have urgent catching-up to do, you know how it is," before she grabbed Mukuro's hand and tugged the elder girl after her, into the hallway. Mukuro quickly drops her black satchel (switchblade gun spare clothes gasoline matches flick-knife scalpel metal chain) by the foot of the kitchen table and heads after her sister.

"Junko-chan?" she asks, questioningly, but if she was expecting an answer she wasn't surprised when Junko continued with her own monologue, throwing her dainty hands in the air to illustrate her point.

"And to think," Junko added sweetly, "I've  _almost_ forgiven you for running away from me to go live with a gang of big dirty army men. This letter really couldn't have come at a better time." Mukuro is about to open her mouth to protest - she didn't run away from  _Junko,_ not exactly, and her superiors weren't exactly fitting her description - when Junko silenced her with one manicured finger to her lips, grabbed Mukuro and shoved her, hard, against the staircase. "Oh, Big Sis Mukuro," she purred. "I've missed this."

"I've missed you, too, Junko-chan," Mukuro responded. "How have you-" But Junko mimed  _shush_ at her again, laughed, and turned with Mukuro still in her arms, so that Mukuro was now pressing her against the stairwell, soft curves becoming quickly pliant to the hard, strong white lines of Mukuro's hands, quickly tracing out the map of her upper body. Junko liked it best when their parents were only inches away, liked to be particularly loud to agonise Mukuro - who didn't think she could take any more  _corruption, bad influence, disappointment daughter_ in their eyes when they saw her with their precious younger daughter - so loud that Mukuro was forced to beg, "Please, Junko-chan," under her breath, cover Junko's pretty mouth with her fingers. 

For once, Junko's pity for her became mercy on her part, and she merely straightened up, smiled saccharine-sweetly, and turned her fingers into a makeshift gun which she aimed straight at Mukuro's temple. "Bang!" she added, just for good measure, and laughed delightedly. She throws her arms around her sister, kisses her cheek. "Baby, we are the future!" she announces, "and the future is bullet-ridden! The future is bleak! The future is an explosion, a burning building, a ten-car pile-up -" She kisses both of Mukuro's cheeks again, then her lips, and stares at her with a quirked eyebrow and a smirk on her cupid's-bow lips. "It's  _despair-inducing,_ yeah?"

"Yeah," Mukuro replies, breathless, and Junko laughs as she cups Mukuro's chin, turns her face in her direction and bites down on her bottom lip hard enough to draw rivulets of blood.

* * *

 

The new gathering of Hope's Peak elite students seem to part easily for the arrival of the twins, who for once wear matching solemn, stony-faced expressions - well, almost matching. Mukuro looks around blankly, whilst Junko glares. The two wear heavy black boots - practical, flat, to-the-ankle boots for Mukuro, and shiny, patent-leather black boots with strawberry-red laces and a switchblade heel for Junko, and the two are in tandem as they stomp past the baseball court, through the gates, and into the school itself. Junko surveys their soon-to-be classmates of two years with the scornful look of a queen surveying her public, whilst Mukuro merely stares at the ground, uninterested. The others seem to be doing one or the other, too - a pretty Gothic Lolita with a face like stony porcelain stares with wide, amused eyes from behind a veil of black-painted fingers. Mukuro catches her eye as she looks up, then averts it quickly.

"Boring," Junko sighs loudly, making a show out of their apparent failure to interest her. She pulls her PDA from her pocket with shiny, manicured nails and starts flipping through the hundreds of contacts she stores. Introductions are swift and short, the headmaster giving what Mukuro suspects is his trademark speech about how proud he is and how  _lucky_ he is to have each of them gathered before him (Junko scoffs at that, without bothering to cover it up), how he always believed there was  _hope_ for the future generations and they're living proof of that today. He seems very young, very friendly - but has an unmistakeable air of authority despite this. Mukuro suspects he's one of those people who is beloved by the students. Junko looks as though she couldn't care less, but even  _she's_ interested enough to look up from her PDA when she notices the way the lilac-haired girl in the row in front refuses to look at him, merely grits her teeth and glares at the ground, her gloved fists clenched tightly in her lap.

"Look out, corpse girl," her sister chirps in a false friendly tone, catching her elbow in the hallway. "You may want to look  _alive,_ unless you're hoping for a date with Celestia von whatever-the-fuck over there," Junko continued, a hint of laughter on her lips. Mukuro stiffens awkwardly, looks down at her feet in embarrassment. "Yeah, you're right," she manages to mutter, and Junko squeezes her elbow painfully tight. "For fuck's sake, pull yourself  _together._ We've got an end goal, remember? Won't it feel good, huh? Totally screwing the world over? Putting all these losers in their place?" Mukuro's hand tightens around her own sleeve, the hidden pocket she's always kept her flick knife, and Junko glances down at her and flashes her a delighted smile.

But despite her show of arrogance earlier, Junko seems to make friends easily. Later that day she changes her expression for one of bright sunshine, all fluttering lashes and "I-act-so-differently-when-I'm-nervous" and showy giggles. Her trademark habit of latching onto people like a leech doesn't go to waste. In homeroom Mukuro notices her take the Gothic Lolita girl's dainty elbow and pull her into a corner, mouthing something Mukuro can't make out, but from the way Junko copies the other girl's mask of fingers, the amused drawl of her lips and the way her eyes flash around the room as she speaks, not to mention the other girl's dainty, yet scornful, giggle she covers almost masterfully with her hands, Mukuro can tell it's an amusing show of gossip she's specially selected for her particular audience.

After class is over (notably a few students tried to speak to Mukuro - there was the small, somewhat boyish yet diminutive programmer who had an air of a timid animal about her, the busty, spunky swimmer girl, the pretty idol and the strange Good-Luck boy, who seemed laid-back and anxious all at once), she waits dutifully outside the door to Junko's dormitory for her sister to let her in. After a few moments of boredom propped against the wall, her sister's make-up routine is finished (ever since she could remember, she has never seen Junko without anything less than a thick face of concealer and mascara - her sister considers the very thought disgusting), the door opens and Junko peers out before pulling her inside. "Man," she exclaims, leaning against the door as she slams it shut and staring up at Mukuro, a pout on her lips, "What a bunch of fuckin' freaks, huh?"

"They seemed average to me," Mukuro theorises, and Junko scoffs. "Of course they did. What do ya think they thought of us, huh?" Running her hands down her slender hips and preening, she adds, "I know what some of 'em thought. That freaky Little League star will be having wet dreams about identical twins for  _days."_ Mukuro wrinkles her nose in distaste.

"That's disgusting, Junko-chan."

"My, my, you're such a  _prude,_ Mukuro-neechan," her sister purred, scooting closer and placing a manicured hand on Mukuro's thigh almost as if planned, screeching with laughter as her sister flinched away from the contact. "Know what else is gross? Your poor, pitiful predicament. Right? Ik-u-sa-ba Mu-ku-ro, the obedient, devoted elder sister - the one who can't help but be a disappointment to the beloved younger sister who trusted her with her entire heart, no matter  _how_ hard she tries-" Junko flings herself back onto the bed and sighs theatrically as Mukuro launches into yet another wooden apology.

As the months go by Mukuro knows Junko loves their classmates, in her way - the more sick and twisted the tortures Junko plans, the more disgusting and pathetic she calls them, mocking, in private conversations with Mukuro, the more she loves them. And Mukuro does, too, as far as she can - her sister is fond of telling her that a machine like her, a "walking talking death ray!" can't possibly be  _capable_ of love, and she guesses she's right, in a way, because all she knows of love she learnt from Junko. Still, there's something loveable, something hopeful, in all of them. They're a ragtag, dysfunctional family; an army of sorts. But Junko's the one threat they could never predict. Junko's the only one for her, the only one who cares about her enough to stay, to trust her with something so important. It had to be true, after all - she'd been telling herself that all her life.

“‘Corpse’,” Junko scoffed, crinkling her pretty nose, the bridge completely free of any freckles. “How ironic. It suits you.” She isn't sure what's more ironic, that her name means 'corpse' or that Junko's means 'obedient daughter' - but she smiles obediently anyhow. 

* * *

 

"You've got to be the one disguised as me, see," Junko tells her, hovering over her. Her plaid skirt is shorter than usual, hitched up to just under her waist, long pale legs and inches of absolute territory. "Not me as you. That would be fuckin' dumb as shit, wouldn't it, Muku-chan? Who'd turn up to see a production by the disappointment sister? It would be a no-fuckin'-show, Mu-ku-ro-neechan," she singsongs, takes hold of Mukuro's chin with long, red nails digging into her jaw, and paints her sister’s lips the same candy-soft, bubblegum-pink as her own.

The two of them are in Junko's dormitory, practising make-up, Mukuro kneeling on the floor with her hands folded in her lap, whilst Junko kneels in front of her, an array of products spread out in front of her like a treasure trove, sharp, methodical-like instruments reminding her of the ones she'd use for torturing back in small, foreign underground cells - which she now knows to be 'eyebrow tweezers' and 'eyelash curlers' - rows of liner pencils sharpened to almost needle-point, black mascara, lipsticks in every colour from black to red to sugar-pink, rouge and concealer and a bottle of the suspiciously sweet, candied scent that always clung to Junko.

Mukuro can't fathom why one girl would need so many of the same black eyeliner pencils, for example, but then she's not just  _any_ girl, she's Junko - and she's always gotten everything she wanted, from modelling contracts to new, shiny, spine-crushing boots, to the whole world now. It's close, so close that Junko could reach out and snatch it, pop it in her mouth and chew it like candy. Her lips purse and her bright blue eyes gaze upwards in wonder, as though she can taste it on her tongue, before flickering back down to meet Mukuro's gaze. Her elder sister has been watching her the entire time, dutifully not straying for a single second. Enoshima Junko - she's the only girl in the world who _needs, demands,_ a constant audience, and Mukuro is happy to provide when no-one else can.

"I can't do anything about those ugly, cold, killer's eyes," she croons, one sharp fingernail brushing Mukuro's cheek, far too close to the socket - if she just pushed her thumb upwards suddenly, she could pop her eye right out. But still Mukuro didn't blink - there was one good thing about being a hired assassin; it gave you an advantage when it came to contemplating pain.

"-running away to go freeze to death in a dirty snowhole with bombs everywhere will do that to you," Junko continued, taking a strand of her sister's hair, curling it around her fingers and tugging hard, suddenly, to make sure that she was listening. "But we can curl these tiny lashes, yeah?"

"Okay," said Mukuro, a heavy silence hanging over them all the same. Her sister's pretty face turns into a carnivore-girl glare.

"What's that? Think I need your fuckin' permission, dumbass?!"

"No, of course not," Mukuro corrects herself quickly, but she doesn't flinch. She's used to Junko's mercurial moodswings, and anyway, Mukuro never flinches. 

“It’s so convenient, having my own attack dog,” Junko hums, and Mukuro says nothing, remains characteristically stoic as ever, doesn’t even flinch when Junko jabs the sharp end of the black kohl eyeliner pencil into her eye. “Whoops,” her younger twin says lightly, and Mukuro frowns. "Junko-chan, are you sure people are going to notice all this?"

"Look, it's bad enough I'm gonna have to let  _you_ pretend to be  _me_ in the first place," her sister tells her, rolling her eyes. "But there's no way anyone's gonna see anyone pretend to be me if they don't even know the basics! It would be a disgrace!" Junko cries, throwing her hands up melodramatically. Mukuro, used to her sister's theatrics, nods.

The hard underwiring of Junko's push-up bra is digging uncomfortably into Mukuro's skin, but she can withhold anything from bullet wounds to water torture, so it's nothing she can't handle - nothing she wouldn't do for Junko-chan. Her sister eyes her predatorially, until Mukuro feels more and more like a herbivore girl caught in her sister's trap, and licks her pastel lips. "You look so super-high-school level cute, even without the freckles," she purrs, her fingers brushing against her big sister's cheek affectionately. 

"Thanks," Mukuro mutters, even though the situation doesn't call for a genuine response. Junko responds by pinching her cheek between two long, sharp fingers and squeezing a little too hard. "What a cutie-pie, right? Not that you're quite good enough-" and here she gestures to Mukuro's cleavage, maximised by the push-up bra Junko loaned her but still decidedly sparse compared to her younger sister's; Mukuro's eyes, which are sleek, dark and cold - cat's eyes, killer's eyes - not the big, round, baby-blue of Junko's. "But hey, you might not be  _despair-inducingly gorgeous,_ but maybe you're right, sis - it's not like any of those idiots are gonna notice." 

Mukuro nods, sits back on her heels, grimaces a little as Junko continues her ministrations with the makeup, and wonders if it's true when she says that none of them - not Kirigiri-san, not Kuwata-kun, not even Naegi-kun - will notice that Junko Enoshima never had a smattering of freckles that were still mildly visible beneath the inches of concealer, never had such cold eyes, and that her glittering smiles and flippant gestures never seemed faked, awkward, or a moment too slow.

"Remember what I taught you, sis," Junko reminds her, tossing her the eyelash curler, which Mukuro catches deftly in one hand without looking up. soldier’s reflexes. “Because if you impersonate me on live TV and you do it _wrong,_ why, I might never be able to forgive you, see? I might have to slit my throat-” and here, she dragged one manicured, blood-red nail across her pale neck for emphasis – “just because the embarrassment and the betrayal from my darling favourite big sister would be too much to handle. The despair would be _overwhelming._ It would be a _violation.”_

“I’ll remember,” Mukuro says, straightening the pleats in her skirt awkwardly, to give her hands something to do since she dropped the eyelash curler into her lap. “I promise, Junko-chan.”

“Good girl,” her little sister tells her, and leans forward to kiss her cheek, soft hair brushing and tickling Mukuro’s nose, and her sister’s almost poisoningly sweet, candy-apple scent almost making her choke. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” As she leaves, Mukuro brings two pale white fingers up to her cheek, now completely void of all freckles, and touches the sugary-pink lipstick stain there.

She isn't used to wearing anything modelled for fashion as opposed to practicality, or camouflage, or safety, she thinks as Junko leaves, swishing her hips purposefully in that tiny plaid skirt of hers, the hem ragged and uneven, as though she was on the catwalk right now as opposed to her school dormitory. With one last shake of her pert ass, her sister slammed the door behind her, leaving Mukuro sitting on her bedroom floor, an effigy in Junko's image, all fake blonde curls, inches of makeup and popping cleavage. She shifts uncomfortably, finding it difficult to blink with the inches of heavy black mascara weighing her lashes down.

Thumbing through the magazines on Junko's bedside table, Mukuro scans them quickly, intrusively. Her eyes are sharp, like the hockey stick Junko had whittled down to a point and handed to her for the purpose of attacking the other girls on the team when they were in middle school. Her sister was always a little in love with herself, so it's no surprise that every single magazine is a fashion title featuring her on the cover, in the centrefold, inches and inches of Junko. There are publications from America, France, Germany - but the one that catches Mukuro's eye is the latest title, a Japanese publication centred around street style fashion; the cover of which Junko was plastered all over - she was all soft white cleavage and backcombed platinum blonde pigtails; a modified baseball bat adorned with pins and needles slung over one shoulder and a one-eyed rabbit plush dangled between her manicured fingers as she winked at the camera, pursing her sugar lips and carefully blowing a pale pink bubblegum bubble. Her little sister was the masturbatory icon of every pubescent boy - and many girls - in Japan, "and my reign of world domination has just started," she told the cameras, with a cute, affected little giggle.

They'd lapped it up, of course. Unlike the others, there had never been a time when Mukuro thought that Junko might be joking. She knew her sister better than anyone else in the world, after all. 

* * *

 

Mukuro stands in the corner of the classroom by her desk, shoulders together and hands lying limp and awkward by her sides. Through her inquistive dark eyes she's watching Makoto Naegi, the Good Luck boy, the first person to ever smile at her properly - deep in conversation with Kyouko Kirigiri, whom even with her ice-queen mask can't hide the light blush on her cheeks or the inquisitive gleam in her eye, nor the way she clutches her gloved hands together tightly. Mukuro is used to voyeurism, and surveying people from afar is nothing new to her - be it one of her classmates or one of her targets for assassination - but somehow this mood feels  _too_ private, and strangely sour in her mouth. Ignoring the curdled taste, she turns away until her right side is aligned with the classroom door.

Out of the corner of her eye she notices the outline of Junko's pinup-model figure in the doorway, hands placed firmly on her hips and her feet in those heavy black lace-up boots wide apart in a triumphant stance. She narrows her eyes, pouts her candy lips, throws a glare Naegi and Kirigiri's way that could curdle milk - ever the protective sister. Junko-chan is a good actress. But Mukuro recognises how her sister's eyes are glittering as she surveys Mukuro's expression, and as her younger sister drags her away she wonders if what she's feeling now is despair.

“It’s not like being second place is new to you, is it, Big Sis Mukuro?” Junko says lightly, and her fingers are digging painfully hard into Mukuro’s wrist, though she doesn’t flinch, her pain threshold being able to withstand everything from shrapnel wounds to deep cuts to heavy-set nail complications, all a product of being the killing machine success story of Fenrir and the elder sister of Junko Enoshima. “Want me to drug him for you, sis? You know I’d do anything for my favourite big sister.” Mukuro doesn't respond, just follows Junko dutifully as they leave the classroom and head back to the dormitories. There she tells Junko, "That won't be necessary. I don't care about Naegi-kun, Junko, you know that, I promised-" But her sister decides to ignore her, too caught up in her own dramatics.

“Cute little Naegi-kun waking up strapped to a desk,” she continues, a telltale hint of glee in her voice that Mukuro has come to recognise even the most subtle signs of, “to find you riding him like a pony, and the two of you are in a state of sweaty disgusting teenage passion. Oh, imagine the  _despair_ involved in doing such dirty, dirty things with a girl who isn't Kirigiri-chan! And boys are soooo weak-" she gestures to her crotch as if to illustrate her point, sharp red fingertails finding their way under the waistband of Mukuro's skirt, and Mukuro gasps. Junko leans forward, puts her hand on her twin's shoulder, and slams her cherry-coated lips to Mukuro's. 

"Really, Big Sis Mukuro, what were you expecting?" she asks, with an air of fake sincerity. "You're a carnivore girl. He's just a herbivore guy. You'd eat him up, one way or the other." And then she smiles, her  _real_ smile, her carnivorous, bubblegum-pink, all glittering white teeth bared smile, the smile that tells her she's gonna be the one to eat everyone up. 

Mukuro, once again, says nothing, just turns up her collar and tightens her tie to hide the crescent-moon indents of Junko’s teeth and nails on her jugular.

"Carnivore girls have to stick together, right, sis?" Junko continues, digging her elbow sharply into her sister's ribcage as Mukuro tugs at her tie. "Besides," she says, and she flutters her black-leaden lashes and runs her sharp fingernails gently over her twin's pale round cheek, "I wouldn't mind if you ate  _me_ up," and she winks, striking a pose. There isn't a single student who hasn't been the receiver of Junko's flirtatious attentions - although  _some_ of them are intelligent enough to know they're being mocked - but it's never the same as it is when it's with Mukuro. Her sister is fond of reminding her that carnivore girls and herbivore guys go together very well, but it's a love that can only be short-lived, and is doomed from the start. Herbivore boys are born to be eaten alive, Junko tells her, but the only dynamics with staying power are those amongst carnivore girls. Even carnivore boys fall prey to them, thinking they'll be safe in their subtlety from the girls with the sharp eyes, sharp claws, sharper mouths - but they're wrong.

"I know, Junko-chan," says Mukuro, and she lets the knife in her sleeve slide out and clatter into her palm, where she clenches it tightly, as though it were a comfort (perhaps it is, sharp things always calmed Mukuro's nerves before they were forged in steel). "What use would I have for a herbivore guy?" 

* * *

 

"Oh, Mukuro-neechan, you're trembling, have I  _scared_ you?" Junko cooes, running her own fingers absent-mindedly through her blonde curls, curling the end of her pigtails around her fingers. "Or are you just excited? Is this  _anticipation?_ Big sis, are you finally becoming a real girl?"

"Junko-chan, please," Mukuro responded breathlessly. "Don't. Stop going so slowly-"

"Oh-oh, the big bad wolf is _begging_?" There was a purr against her ear and an agonisingly slow, wet lick with the flick of her tongue against Mukuro's neck, as she writhed uncomfortably on the bed. They had no need for chains - Junko told her, very nicely, to keep her hands to the bed on pain of death and  _not_ to dare touch her, or herself, and Mukuro obeyed automatically as she did every order she was given. Really, it was wonderful what military training could do, Junko mused to herself contentedly. She could brainwash people very well all by herself, but it was almost like her big sister had been a special, gift-wrapped present. "So  _beary_ adorable!" Junko praised her, affecting the squeaky, high-pitched accent and laughing as her sister's face twisted in distaste. Mukuro groaned, and shuddered, and pushed her knees together as Junko raked her long red nails down the expanse of one of her pale thighs. "Junko-chan,  _please,"_  she repeated."Can you not do that? You know it creeps me out." 

“Big Sis Mukuro, you’re so boooooring,” Junko whines, pouting, but she soon forgets her little tantrum as a new idea sparks to mind, kohl-rimmed baby-blue eyes flashing wickedly, wide and innocent. "Maybe I just like to see you squirm." 

_"Junko."_

"What? You're doing it right now." Junko's pearly-white teeth scrape across her jugular and both of them think, in that instance, that if _only_ she'd just bite down a little harder she could very well puncture it, paint the bed, stain Mukuro's white skin and Junko's pretty pink lips with a spray of red. Junko's eyes roll back in her head as she rocks forward with a small moan, and Mukuro digs her nails into the sheets and bucks her hips roughly, accordingly.

“I could pull it all out – all the pretty, pretty organs, all the parts of you I hate hate hate – and I could stitch you all up again better than new,” Junko breathes into her ear. “Or maybe I wouldn’t bother.”

Delightfully, it doesn't take much to have her stoic, icy sister biting her lip and canting her hips like she's so fucking  _desperate,_ as Junko loves to remind her - just a few words about death and dismemberment and they're both edging ever nearer to the peak. The younger sister likes to fantasise about having Mukuro executed, old-school style, as an enemy to the republic - keeping her severed head by her bedside table all pretty and letting Mukuro-neechan watch as she got herself off remembering how her eyes still stared when the blade sliced clean through her neck. As Junko repeats this out loud, she twists her fingers mercilessly inside Mukuro, who lets out a soft little cry as she closes her eyes in bliss and bucks her hips one last time. Mukuro repays the favour on her knees, her head dutifully between Junko's legs as her sister clutches her hair with one hand and flicks through a fashion magazine with the other, thighs in her pretty vinyl leather boots clutched around Mukuro's head, listing through all the despair-inducingly gruesome ways Mukuro could die. Afterwards, they lie together on Junko's sheets, amongst hair curlers Mukuro doesn't even mind digging into her spine, lacy underwear and prototypes for the final Monokuma model she plans to dump on Fujisaki's desk in the morning and order  _sweetly_ that their cute little classmate get it done for her,  _if_ he doesn't mind. They don't cuddle, exactly - because Mukuro is as hard and cold as ice, and Junko is all sharp edges - but Junko throws one of her legs over Mukuro and lets the other girl lie beside her.

"You might be the most useless person in the world," her younger sister tells her as they're lying together in bed, her sharp nails stroking through Mukuro's jet-black hair, only pulling then and there, her tone one of contradictory affection (although Mukuro is sure this  _is_ Junko's affection). "But you can dislocate someone's shoulder in their sleep and hey, that could come in handy one day." 

"Yes," Mukuro responds drily, chest still heaving.

"And you're good at oral. Well, better, at least."

"O-oh?"

" _Much_ better than my manager," she purrs.

"That's generous of you, Junko-chan." Her tone is dry, but there's an unmistakeable blush on her cheeks and Junko can tell she hates it. She laughs delightedly, proud of herself.

"Hey, sis," she demands suddenly, nails scraping her sister's scalp. "if you were going to kill me, how would you do it?" She blinks her big eyes, barely gives Mukuro time to think before she's whining, "come on come  _on,_ big sis, don't be useless like always!"

The tips of Mukuro's fingers rub awkwardly at the bridge of her nose, almost as though she's trying to rub away the freckles there through sheer force. She thinks for a minute, but doesn't miss a beat before responding.

"I'd cut out your heart," Mukuro tells her, matter of factly, "like a huntsman with a deer. I'd carve it out of you with a butcher's knife and carry it home. I'd leave your corpse there for the animals to feed. First you'd turn pale. Then your tongue and lower lips would begin to turn blue, and cold, and begin to distend from the gas. When rigor mortis sets in your body will stiffen, and then bloat, and then decay. Swarms of carrion beetles, blowflies and maggots would begin to feast on you. Of course, some of these processes will be sped up, or quickened altogether, if you do happen to be eaten by a wild animal before I leave you."

Junko moans theatrically, licking her pastel pink lips like a porn star. Mukuro is used to the taste, and just the sight makes her mouth begin to water in a movement that's a gross parody of Pavlov's experiment. Junko tastes like synthetic berries from her lipgloss, and usually irony like blood, after one of the girl's bites down on the other's tongue hard enough to draw blood and then draws the tongue into their mouth. It's a routine they've played many times before, but Mukuro knows that the show is just for her benefit, and Junko does too, because she pulls her down conspiratorially and adds, "That's  _lovely,_ Big Sis Mukuro, so  _romantic -_ but we both know that's not what you'd do first,  _is_ it?"

Mukuro licks her own lips, silent for a moment, and then admits, "..No." 

"What would you  _do?"_ Junko bites her lips, eyes all round like saucers, and Mukuro has to grit her teeth and admit that her sister has always been the better actress out of the two of them. "Would you  _ravish_ me, big sis?"

"I'd take my fill from you before I left," Mukuro continued, with a tone of admittance. "I'd take what I wanted from your body. First I'd kiss your lips-"

"Like this?" Junko laughs gleefully, arching her back like a cat and pursing her lips. Her elder sister leans her head and forcefully captures the plump jut of her bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth and resting one hand on her throat as she did so, ignoring the subsequent rise and fall as best she could. Junko looks as though she intends to nip at Mukuro's mouth, but thinks better of it - instead she flattens out her frame against the sheets, her arms dangling stiffly by her sides, pretty face poised in an image of perfect calm. Mukuro notices the protuberant, pretty blue veins under her skin and she knows very well what Junko is intending to resemble. Her younger sister has always been fond of making quips about soldiers and necrophilia, and Mukuro is loathe to admit that now there is very little use in ever denying it again. However, as long as she can restrain herself from blushing when Celestia turns to look at her with wide, interested eyes and her head tilted to the side like a cat every time one of Junko's aforementioned quips catch her sharp hearing, she doesn't particularly mind.

Catching Junko's lip between her teeth, her sharp incisors pull at the skin hard enough to bleed, and a pleasurable shudder runs through the younger twin's body. When Mukuro pulls away, her sister's lips are bloody and red. Carnivore girl. They suit her. "Then," Mukuro continues, lifting her head from their forceful kiss, "I'd open your shirt, like so-" Mukuro's usually deft, quick fingers are fumbling heavily the way a man's would, and Junko can tell that it's purposeful. Mukuro cups one of her generous pretty pale breasts, trying to feel over the stiff underwire of Junko's bra, which is appropriately black and red and lacy. "Then I'd touch you, like this," she continues, speaking flatly, her eyes impassive and icy-cold although Junko knows better. Junko always does. With that she seizes her flick-knife from the floor where it lies covered by her blouse and her blazer and with one swift slice she has it in two in the palms of her hand, and she digs her hand in greedily until she has a handful of flesh cupped in her palm.

"Do you fuckin' mind?" Junko demands, sitting bolt upright to glare at her with a face contorted into a scowl. "I  _liked_ that one, you piece of shit!" Mukuro immediately pulls herself up onto her knees and begins to apologise, but the pretty blonde girl grits her teeth, waves her sister's complaints away, and reaffirms her position. "Damn, what's your problem?" Screwing her face up in what Mukuro supposes is an impression of her, she continues, taunting - "You can snap someone's neck and flay their skin but you can't even stand up to your own little sister? Jeez, you really are pathetic, _aren't_ you?" She purses her lips and continues - "Whose idea was that tattoo in the first place, anyway? How in the hell does a wolf represent you? A lapdog would be more accurate-" 

Mukuro's nerves are scattered; for once she's lost at knowing what Junko wants her to do, and her sister finally takes pity on her, but it's with a martyred sigh - she smoothes the pleats down in her skirt, turns to face the other girl, and with her misanthropic sneer, she sighs, "Just for once, how about you  _pretend_ you know what you're doing, hmm? It'd be amusing to see how you focus on the battlefield without me spoon-feeding you instructions all  the time." 

It's not that she has a kink for masochism, or degradation - pain doesn't register with Mukuro, never has, much to Junko's chagrin - and she doesn't  _enjoy_ being reminded of how disappointing she is to Junko-chan, but her sister's sharp words and patronising nicknames are at least far preferable to shakes of the head and that  _look_ Junko gives her that's all pity and disappointment, barely hidden between kohl-heavy lashes and blue sparkle. Anything would be preferable, she decides, and if Junko-chan wants her to act like a soldier here, that's what she'll do. With her pale hands kneading her sister's flesh, Mukuro continues drily, "I'd continue to touch you." 

Her bony fingers dig into the pale, perfect mounds of Junko's breasts - sexual desire comes secondary to Mukuro, her sister's orders always first - but she'd be lying if she said that not even she remained unmesmerised. The fact that half the world agreed didn't seem to dissuade her. Her mouth closed around one pink, pert nipple and although she latched on hungrily, teeth scraping the areola as her fingers scraped their marks across her flesh. Junko liked pain, both receiving and inflicting, but there was no lazy smile on her lips or pursing in pleasure - she'd adapted to the roleplay as easy as her twin did, lying so still and looking so serene that Mukuro was able to forget about the pulse thudding in excitement she felt underneath her flesh. Still, even Junko's spine arches a little to a particularly harsh bite, and as the elder girl lifts up her head, Junko's nipples stand pert and perky, her cheeks flushed a rosy tone unbefitting a supposedly dead girl.

Mukuro, however, ignores this, and merely hitches up Junko's pleated skirt around her waist, pulls apart her long legs and wraps them around her own waist. They hang awkward and languid off the edge of the bed - she supposed she should have expected this, but it doesn't dissuade her - in fact, any deviation from their little necrophilia roleplay would probably serve to distract her. She was glad that Junko left her panties on the floor, however, because it makes it easy for her to hook her long white fingers inside her sister, two at first, and begin to scissor in and out - her lips latch onto her sister's again, which are still deliciously bitten and red, and she kisses her hungrily, the way she imagines a wolf would sever a cartoid artery. When her scissoring motions become demandingly insistent, Junko bucks her hips and bites down, hard, on the inside of Mukuro's mouth. 

She pulls away, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and is sure to remove her fingers from Junko, wiping them a little awkwardly on her skirt, before adding, "And that's h-how I'd leave you." Her chest, which was formerly rising and falling, began to steady with her pulse, and the small panting noises in the air seemed to have subsided also.

"Well," she hears Junko's familiar preppy voice comment from beside her, "it's always a delight finding out what gets you off, Mukuro-neechan."

She comes down hard with a shudder from her meagre high; props herself up on one elbow to look at Junko's darling serial-killer grin. Even Junko's mugshot would be pretty, Mukuro muses to herself, it's as if she can't help it at all. Her sister stretches lazily like a cat and fixes her with a sardonic smile, rolling over and propping her head up on the opposite elbow to face her.

"Did- did you enjoy yourself, Junko?" she asks, mock-professionally, her fingers scraping awkwardly through her smooth black hair. The younger twin sniggers as she reaches out for Mukuro with clawed fingernails, pulls the other girl's head onto her lap and strokes her hair in a movement that would be uncharacteristically gentle for anyone unfamiliar with Junko's constant swings of mood.

"Oh, Big Sis Mukuro," Junko croons, "You're the best big sister in the  _whole_ world."

* * *

 

It's "punishment time", as Junko put it - man, the last few days were  _hard,_ so slow and boring whilst waiting for the motions of her plan to be set in place! Well, strictly speaking, the ball hasn't been set rolling just  _yet -_ that job's all the responsibility of darling little Mukuro. She giggles at her own joke behind a veil of cherry-red nails. Speaking of Mukuro-neechan, she does wonder how the poor dear little thing is holding up. 

_I don't feel. I don't feel so good._

_I don't.._

Mukuro doubles over, and Junko wrinkles her nose. "Look, wow, gross. If you're going to throw up, could you just restrain yourself? If you ruin my clothes, you'll have to pay me for them-" and she hooks her fingers under the stiff underwire of her push-up bra on poor little Mukuro's ironing-board chest, good job it was elevated for maximum cleavage! 

"Junko," her sister starts, stuttering painfully, and she's fiddling awkwardly with the stiff hem of Junko's tiny skirt and twisting the material in her fingertips as though deriving comfort from the touch alone, what a cutie. "Are you sure they won't see through me?"

"Let's not forget who's running the show, Big Sis Mukuro," Junko chides, with a light, teasing tone that's contradictory to the hard, steely look in her eyes. "I  _know_ you can hardly do anything else, but you wouldn't want to disappoint your darling little sister  _again._ Not after she's put all this love and trust into you, and wasted so much time training you,  _would_ you?" Mukuro shakes her head at that, face as impassive as always. Her sister has a pair of die in her hands; black and red, she rolls them back and forth over her palm. Those are items she snatched from Ludenberg's pockets earlier whilst their classmates lay comatose on their respective desks, and they've been amusing her from her position behind the controls whilst she waited for the games to start. 

"But of course," she purrs, "there's no start without the star of the show,  _is_ there? Wouldn't that be a downer!" She laughs, pulling her sister close and kissing her hard, then scrubs at her face, licking her thumb and wiping away a smear of her own lipgloss that bled onto Mukuro's cheek. "Go on, sis. Don't look so down, it's nearly time for your big debut!" and she laughs at her own joke, before shoving Mukuro away from her and gesturing to the door of the control room. "I think you have somewhere to be, hmm?"

Mukuro stumbles into the room and blinks under the painfully harsh, bright lights of the school gym, reflecting on the shiny fibres of her wig. She only has a few moments by herself to gather her thoughts, and she stands perfectly still, too frightened to risk being caught smoothing down her skirt or fixing her wig or even glancing into the eye of the camera by another student. She eventually settles for a defensive, hands-on-hips pose, and it's that face they see when Kuwata stumbles in after her, devoid of any flashy sneer for once, and looks her up and down in a way he never has before, followed shortly by Oowada - still a little bleary-eyed, eyeliner smudged imperfectly, broad shoulders thrown back and demanding to know "What's the big idea?"

Junko's voice still ringing in her ears, she widens her eyes unnervingly large and hopes they don't catch that it doesn't quite look the way it  _should;_ she turns to face her public with a false softness that doesn't belong to her, and gives them her best, carnivore-girl jackal smile, with glittery white fangs and glossy pink lips parting the way Junko taught her. "Enoshima Junko," she purrs in a voice that isn't hers, throwing her fingers upwards into an exaggerated peace sign - these hands aren't hers, either - the sharp red nails and the smooth, pale skin completely void of any marks. "Charmed, I'm sure."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for femslash February (a very late addition), because it seemed like the perfect time to write about my favourite incestuous bad girls. Also I've always wanted to write a fic about one girl doing another's makeup, with lesbian-ish undertones, so god bless the despair twins for existing and giving me the opportunity.  
> I hope you guys enjoy it; if you want to talk about terrible murder girls with me I am always up for that.


End file.
